E is for Estranged
by Ellwood-Luxe
Summary: Albus Severus has run away from home. Scorpius has taken him in. Rated T for brief language.


Albus wasn't sure whether he was still dreaming.

In the next room, Scorpius was saying, "No, change it. I don't want to listen to _fucking Mozart,_ honestly, Theodore, have some class—"

There was a scuffle and a deep sort of laugh, the sound of a record scratching off its support. Albus rolled onto his back, hid his eyes in the crook of his elbow. After a moment the first few bars of some piano sonata came drifting from the next room, skimming over the sound of the street floors and floors below: laughter, shouts, bicycle chimes, footfalls. Somewhere beyond, a train.

"—All right. Chopin is acceptable, I suppose."

It was his seventeenth birthday. His head pulsed.

The light that came through the blinds—partway closed, because though no one person could see into the flat on the ninth floor, the sun certainly could—was dim, warm, which made Albus suppose that it was afternoon. It made sense, now he was thinking about it, now that he was awake enough for complete thoughts: the sun had begun to rise by the time he and Scorpius had made it to sleep.

"Is he up yet? It's getting on. Victoire is waiting. She'll have me skinned if I'm too late coming home."

"Quit complaining and drink your tea. I'll check."

The floorboards creaked under Scorpius' feet, and the door opened. Albus didn't move, his eyes still covered.

"Potter," Scorpius said quietly. He settled on the lip of the bed, put a hand on Albus' elbow. "Teddy Lupin is here. He wants to see you."

Albus stirred, barely, taking a long breath in.

"Tell him I've died."

"Oh, shut up. It's nearly four. Get up?"

Moving his arm from his face, Albus worked his expression into a bleary scowl to look Scorpius in the face—mussed as he was he was still fair, somehow clean-cut in his shirtsleeves and slacks, even in the face of his uncombed flaxen hair, the hangover he certainly still had. Albus could see it in the dusting of purple beneath his eyes, the vivid paleness of his lips. His own hangover had settled in his stomach, at the base of his throat, a sluggish weight that sloshed inside him as he sat up.

Scorpius' hand moved to Albus' shoulder as soon as he'd risen, squeezed, then released.

"I'll put the kettle back on."

He stood, then disappeared beyond the door. Albus could hear Teddy asking about him as he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. Scorpius was answering that he'd be out soon, his voice cut by the accidental clanging of the kettle hitting the ridge of the sink, the rush of the water from the faucet, the kettle hitting the stove. Albus rummaged for a sweater, pulled it over his head, sitting idly at the edge of the bed for a moment before finally resolving that it was time to make an appearance.

Pushing beyond the door, Albus squinted in the light of the afternoon, running a hand through his hair. The piano sonata glided sleepily on from the corner behind the sofa, where the record player sat on the floor amidst a disorganized pile of records and books and jumpers, forgotten mugs and discarded quills. From the armchair by the window, Teddy straightened, suddenly alert.

"Al," he said. His smile seemed forced. "There's the birthday boy."

"Hullo, Teddy," Albus conceded, and let himself collapse on the sofa, leaning forward into his hands. His head thrummed at the temples, and when he glanced up, the evidence of the night before were all too obvious: one bottle of Malbec, corked but empty, on its side at Teddy's feet; one bottle of firewhiskey, three-quarters full and upright on the table; two glasses, one with a patient mouthful of liquid left at the bottom and the other very neatly empty, clean.

"I've got something for you," Teddy told him, and reached down into his bag for a wrapped parcel, which he handed off to Albus. "It's from Victoire and I."

Turning it over once, Albus ripped open the paper to reveal two books, nearly identical, both bound in green leather and stamped with gold lettering. Tracing the spines with his index finger both in turn, he ran over the golden titles. One read _The Iliad,_ the other, _The Odyssey._ Albus looked up at Teddy without comment, holding the books in his hands blandly.

"They go together," Teddy explained, grinning, ignoring Albus' blankness. "The stories do. Your aunt suggested them to me when I was your age. Said they were two of her favorite Muggle titles. I know you like to read, so—"

"Thanks, Teddy," Albus said. Books were a safe gift; always had been. "I'll read them soon. I promise."

Teddy laughed. "I've heard that one before.

In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, the air uncomfortably filled with a sticky, avoidant quiet that was no quiet at all; the street-sounds through the window, the scratchy piano from the record-player in the corner.

"There's, er—there's something else," Teddy began. Albus looked at him, eyebrows raised.

Scorpius came into the sitting room at that moment with a cup of tea steaming in his hand, put it on the coffee table in front of Albus, settled on the sofa with his legs tucked beneath him. Teddy glanced at him anxiously, and continued.

"From your parents."

"Theodore." Scorpius' jaw was set. "Don't."

Teddy ignored him, held out another parcel. "Open it."

The box was small, the size of Albus' fist, and not wrapped; it opened on a hinge, and he flipped the top up.

A watch, as was traditional.

"You're of age now," Teddy explained, then paused, took a breath. "You know, your parents miss you."

Albus said nothing, did not look Teddy in the eye.

"They want you to come home."

Albus grit his teeth, shut the box, slammed it on the table. He stood, and Scorpius flinched.

"Thanks for visiting, Teddy. I'll let you know when I finish the books."

The sonata drifted on; Albus moved past Scorpius and back into the bedroom, shut the door behind him.

No voices followed him.

* * *

 **Prompts:**

 **Flash Fiction Challenge:** Albus/Scorpius

 **Fairy Tale Challenge:** 3\. Snow White – write about a runaway. / "I promise." / "I've heard that one before."

 **Word Count:** 1065


End file.
